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Mullings by Rich Galen
A Political Cyber-Column By Rich Galen
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Christmas 2004: Six Words

Rich Galen

Friday December 24, 2004



  • One year ago I was in Iraq. Many of the civilians took annual leave last year at this time, to get home for Christmas. No one begrudged them that. I had not been in Iraq long enough - about seven weeks at that point - to take leave, which I would not do until February.

  • The Palace in the Green Zone was sparsely populated. Desks were empty. Hallway chatter was muted. Lines at the dining facility were almost non-existent.

  • At Coalition headquarters, meals were eaten on paper plates with plastic knives, forks, and spoons. Except for two occasions: Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. Real plates and metal silverware. Sounds like a minor thing, but it wasn't minor. It was a big deal.

  • Americans are extremely careful about the religious sensitivities of others. For example, we were very watchful during Ramadan to not have candy and snacks out at our desks during the daylight hours when our Iraqi staff members were not permitted to eat.

  • Our enemies are not quite as thoughtful. On Christmas day, last year, the shelling started at about 6:30 in the morning and didn't stop until ten that night. Not every minute, but about every hour or so a rocket or mortar would go off somewhere in the Green Zone.

  • That meant the soldiers and Marines were on alert, and the civilians were on edge, all day.

  • Our work day was shorter than usual because Washington was closed. On normal days we would get to work at about seven thirty in the morning and do our jobs. Then, because of the eight-hour time difference, another activity-spike began at four in the afternoon local when Washington opened for business at eight Eastern time.

  • We let the military personnel use our phones at night. The phones were direct dial back to the US and we were happy to let them call their families after nine or ten at night Baghdad time.

  • On Christmas night we went out of our way to be certain as many as possible were available to the soldiers, airmen and Marines and, because the US was closed for business, we were happy to see the young men and women make use of the idle phones.

  • This is the closing section of the Iraq Travelogue from last Christmas:
    All over Iraq these men and women - old enough to have children, but young enough to be someone's child - all over Iraq they will be calling home this day, or e-mailing, or instant messaging; renewing the connection between parent and child; or child and parent.

    Each of those renewals will end with the same six words, six words I share with you this day and which come from my heart and the hearts of every person who is here to do this vitally important job.

    You can watch them - even the young, tough Marines - as they speak into the phone, staring across the 10,000 miles between a desk in the Green Room and the phone on their mom's kitchen wall.

    They stare, and they listen.

    And then so quietly. And so gently. And so tenderly, these tough, young war-fighters; just before they have to replace the phone and break that connection, they each say the same six words which must end the conversation:

    "Merry Christmas.
    I love you, too."

  • Tonight or tomorrow you will go to Church or sit down with your family to your Christmas meal on the best china with the special silverware. You will ask God's grace in giving His blessing on the food and on your family which is about to share it. When you do that, I know you will take a few seconds and ask His blessing, also, on the young men and women - military and civilian - who are in Iraq.

  • But then add your own blessing on those young Americans. And say to them those same six words which they will have said to their loved ones.

  • Say to them across the 10,000 miles from your pew or from your table to where they are, say:
    "Merry Christmas.
    I love you, too."

  • Thank you.

  • On the Secret Decoder Ring today: A link to the full Iraq Travelogue from last Christmas.

    --END --
    Copyright © 2004 Richard A. Galen


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